All the Things We Leave Unsaid
by heartbash
Summary: After Rebecca's encounter with Greg in 4x08, she flees to Nathaniel's apartment, seeking validation. Ficlet for tumblr prompt (from Anon): How can you think I'm anything but hopelessly in love with you?


The first thing out of my mouth is a lie. It's a straight up lie. I know it (maybe he knows it), but I feel powerless to stop it.

"I don't know why I'm here," I blurt out when Nathaniel opens the door. He's wearing a rumpled gray t-shirt and thin sweatpants, his feet bare, his hair tousled with bed head. Memories, more like intrusive thoughts, of mornings enmeshed in his sheets, our limbs tangled together, immediately shove their way into my mind and I swear I can hear a twinkling sound in the distance.

He squints at the harsh lighting of the hallway and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. How is it possible for someone to look this attractive after waking up? Usually I look like some weird amalgam of a swamp monster and Charlize Theron. (The _Monster _version.) How dare he.

Oh shit. What if he's not alone? The thought didn't even occur to me until this very moment.

Don't look. Don't look past him to the bed. It's Schrodinger's bed - if I don't look, then maybe there isn't a woman there. What if his bed head is, in actuality, sex hair? What if, moments ago, he was snuggled up with some faceless, nameless woman? Younger. Thinner. Long, thick brown hair. All legs. Probably went to the gym this morning. Drank one of those green smoothies he passionately sucks down with self-hatred. Because both of them have discipline, something I clearly lack, as evidenced by the fact that I'm standing here at his door.

I can't help it. I look. And there's no one in his bed. Thank god.

"Sorry, were you sleeping?" What a stupid question.

"I was, but that's ok. Do you want to come in?" he asks, stepping to the side so I can enter, one of his eyebrows raised.

Oh, I really shouldn't be here. Is this backsliding? Heather and Valencia more-or-less told me tonight that Greg is the healthy choice. That's the answer. Right? So then why does it feel like we're constantly pulled back together, over and over, through some unseen gravitational force? I'm trapped in his orbital path, spinning like a top on my axis.

I brush past him into the apartment and Schrodinger's bed calls out to me. I want to bury my face in the pillows, get naked and roll around in the sheets. I can feel myself getting aroused against my conscious will, and it must be some kind of Pavlov's dog shit.

"Are you ok? Is something wrong? Why are you wearing a name tag?" he asks, pointing to my chest as he shuts the door. He's a little dazed, maybe wondering if I'm really standing in front of him or if I'm some hyper-realistic dream.

The truth is I'm here primarily for validation. I can't get Greg's sour, disappointed face out of my head, and every time I imagine it, I feel like utter garbage. And Nathaniel is the one person, for better or worse, who saw me at my absolute lowest and still managed to think the sun shined out my ass, even _loved _me somehow, despite it.

Secondarily, I'm here out of sheer sexual frustration, though I'm trying not to consciously acknowledge it. Let's face it, we have undeniable sexual chemistry, he's unbearably attractive, and we know how to please each other. This prolonged dry spell needs to end, like, yesterday. Plus, we've had sex a million times. What's one more roll in the hay? And besides, he should be groveling at my feet for all the shitty things he did. Maybe he'll throw me a bone and we can have some no-strings-attached sex. For old time's sake.

At least he's looking at my chest. That's a start.

"A lot is wrong, actually. My business is failing, two of my best friends moved away, I have no boyfriend, I'm in the longest dry spell of my life, and, oh, I finally confessed to Greg moments ago that I fucked his dad. So, to answer your question, no, I'm not ok."

Nathaniel's eyebrows climb high on his head as he tries to absorb all this information. "Oh, um, I'm sorry to hear that," he says, neutral and tentative, like he's still trying to figure out my angle.

"Oh, and the name tag. I was at a high school reunion. Not my own. Obviously. Long story."

"Rebecca, don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see you. But, to be honest, I thought you never wanted to speak to me again."

That's fair. The last time we had a real conversation, I gave him the verbal lashing of a lifetime. At the time, I didn't think I ever wanted to speak to him again either. So that makes two of us.

I suppose I do owe him some kind of explanation for showing up at his door besides the fact that my life sucks right now.

"I'm here because you're the one person who always saw the good in me. And I need someone to tell me I'm not the worst person in the world right now," I say, divulging at least part of the truth.

"You're not the worst person in the world right now," he echoes with a soft smile.

I should stop there, take the win, and leave before I made a bad decision, but the words bubble up and spill out of me. "You never judged me. Even after you found out about my past and my disorder, you never...looked at me or treated me differently."

He nods, bites his lip. "I just continued to be a total asshole," he says with a half-shrug.

That catches me off-guard and I giggle, "Yea, something like that."

The way he's looking at me is gooey and sweet and adorable and I want to take that bottom lip between my teeth and suck.

"Those things are part of you but they don't define you," he says softly, with earnest. "And no one's perfect. I mean, look at me," he adds in a biting tone.

Excuse me? Self-deprecation? Who is this man and what did he do with Nathaniel?

"What happened to Mr. Perfect Plimpton?"

He chuckles, low and breathless. "Well, a very smart woman told me my behavior lately has been, quote, inexcusable. It's made me rethink a lot of things."

He listened to me? That's a first.

"I see. Well, she sounds hot," I joke with a smirk, attempting to cut the tension.

"Oh, you have no idea," he says with a demure smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "Speaking of, um, whatever you were doing tonight, you look really pretty."

He's toast.

And, if we're being honest, he looks like a ten-course meal it's taking all my willpower not to gorge on. But I bite my tongue, not wanting to give too much away.

When I don't respond to the compliment, he backtracks. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. You were probably out with that guy and I have no, um...I know you don't...I know we're done," he stammers.

My chest aches.

"It's ok. You're right. I was out with Greg. "

His eyes drop to my shoes. I've seen that disheartened expression before.

"But I miss you," I add, on impulse, before I can stop myself.

An exhale rushes out of him and he says, without missing a beat, "I miss you too."

"Sometimes I get angry," I say, word vomiting all over the room, "that you messed things up for us. Because I'm finally in a place where I think I could have a relationship. You know?"

"I know," he whispers. "No one is more mad at me than myself. Trust me."

He's letting his guard down tonight, showing me his vulnerable side. Maybe it's the late hour or that I roused him from sleep. Or maybe he's truly trying to change. It's a rare side of him to see, a side he closed off after we broke up the first time. Tears begin to prick at my eyes, and, fuck, this is not how I expected this conversation to go.

I hate him. And I love him. There's no in between.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice an envelope on the kitchen counter with my name scrawled on the front. Relieved to have a distraction, I blink back the tears before they can fall and ask, "What's that?"

"Oh, um, I wrote you a letter. An apology. I've been meaning to give it you to, but, like I said, I thought you never wanted to speak to me again, so…"

I walk over and pick up the envelope. It's a bit wrinkled, the edges slightly curled.

How many times did he have this in his pocket when he timidly waved hello or gave me a cursory _Hi _or nervously averted his eyes when the elevator doors opened?

"Can I have this?" I ask, knowing the curiosity will kill me if I don't read it.

From behind me he says, "Of course. I want you to have it."

As I tuck the envelope in my purse, I hear his bare feet patter against the floor, his foot falls approaching closer and closer. I don't turn around, but I pull my purse off my shoulder and set it down on the barstool, signalling I'm staying.

The heat of his chest warms my back and the scent of his fabric softener wafts through the air, igniting an explosion of sensory memory in my lizard brain. A puff of his breath against my hair sets all of my nerves at attention as I wait for his next move.

He places both his hands, warm and steady, on my shoulders and squeezes. A test. How will I react? I can practically feel his eyes boring a hole in the back of my head as he stills, watches me. I exhale, trying to slow my breathing so I don't dissolve into a puddle on the floor. I lean back into him an infinitesimal amount, just enough so my back barely grazes his chest, just enough to show him I want this.

Taking the subtle cue from me, he ghosts one of his hands down my body until it settles on my hip while the other gently swipes my hair to the side, exposing my neck. He's barely even touched me and I have goosebumps tingling up and down my arms. My eyes slip shut and I tilt my head to the side, silently granting permission.

He dips his head and plants a whisper-soft kiss at the base of my neck. A second, a little more pressure. A third, I feel his tongue dart out and taste my skin. A fourth, he moves the collar of my sweater to the side so he can kiss my shoulder.

I shiver. A sound that can only be described as a whimper leaves my lips.

Emboldened, he wraps both his arms around my middle, closing any remaining distance between us, hugging me flush against him. Every part of my body feels enveloped by his, like I'm swaddled in a warm blanket. A sexy, tall, hard, blanket I want to feel on top of me as soon as possible.

As he continues to pepper kisses up and down my neck, I raise my arm and cup the back of his head with my hand, urging him on. Despite the fact we've had sex countless times, in every way imaginable, his touch and his lips feel electric and new and utterly intoxicating tonight. Even the prickle of his tiny hairs through my fingertips is arousing.

He sighs when he nuzzles a spot just behind my ear and whispers, "You smell so good." He burrows his nose into my hair, completely abandoning any pretense that he's isn't completely undone. I arch my back until I feel his burgeoning erection press against my ass and he hums, his thumb slipping under my sweater and teasing at the waistband of my pants.

Enough's enough.

I turn to face him and he immediately pulls his arms away, as he always does when he's worried he's crossed a line. I'm panting, openly panting like an animal in heat, as I stare up at him, begging him with my eyes to just fucking take me to bed already.

He tentatively ducks his head to kiss me but stops short before he reaches my lips. I keen forward, my eyes fluttering shut, and, to my shock, he pulls away. I open my eyes and there's a playful smile at his lips. What a piece of shit.

"Kiss me right now," I say, a hair above a whisper, our mouths inches apart, our breaths mingling in the air between us.

"You kiss me," he says, daring me to make the first move. Even though I know he's teasing me for the fun of it, I also know he's forcing me to be the one to seal the fate of the night.

Fine. I grab the back of his neck and pull him toward me. His neck muscles tense and he resists for a moment longer, making me work for it, but then gives in and our lips come crashing together. A moan, long and low, hums against my lips as he springs into action, his hands roaming over my waist and hips, unsure where to land. I cradle his face in both my hands, my fingers pressing into his cheeks, determined not to let him get away. Our noses bump against each other as we battle for control of the kiss, his tongue almost instantly knocking against my lips, wanting in, and I let him.

I tug at the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and slipping my hands underneath. His chest is just as hard, yet supple, as I remember, and his heartbeat thrums madly under my fingertips. He breaks the kiss to pull the t-shirt over his head, and I follow his lead, discarding my sweater in one smooth motion. Thank god I decided to wear my black bra. It's not the lacy one, but at least it's not my beige workhorse.

I take his hand in mine and haul him toward the bed. He stumbles after me, his eyes darkening, and he licks his lips. Honest to god, he licks his lips. Good lord.

Just before we reach the bed, I let go of his hand and unbutton my pants. Maybe it's presumptuous, judging by the way he raises his eyebrows at the move, but it's easier than trying to wrestle them off later. He stands, frozen, his lips parted, as I shimmy them over my hips and then discard them into a heap on the floor. Oh lord, why did I wear this underwear? Neon yellow with black lightning bolts. How juvenile. Also I haven't shaved my legs in three weeks.

"I obviously didn't plan this," I explain with a staccato laugh.

He smiles. "I've seen those before."

Right. He's seen them all before at one point or another.

The air between us is charged, imbued with all the things left unsaid and all the build-up of our time apart. My eyes drift down and I swallow at the sight of his arousal through his pants. His fingers clench and unclench, tamping down the urge to touch himself. I'm sure of it. I know his ticks and tells better than anyone else's. Sex four, five times a week for almost a year will do that to you. It'll fill your head with all sorts of knowledge until you can anticipate what the other person will do before they even consciously think it. But while we both know how much I love to watch him engage in said activity, I only want his hands on _me_. Right now.

I lie back on the bed and arch my back in a way I hope is enticing. And it must be because he doesn't hesitate another second and crawls over me, covering my body with his, keeping most of his weight balanced on his forearms. He kisses me and it's like coming home. I sigh into his mouth in relief, tugging at his back until he relents and lowers his full weight on top of me. Retreating from my lips with a soft smack, he trails kisses down to my collarbone, his hand sliding up my back to cup the back of my head. A signature move. I missed that.

"Oh my god," I whisper, slanting my head back and pushing my chest out, "I haven't had a man's hands on me since…since you, I guess."

He stops and props himself up to flash me a smug, toothy smile.

"Stop being so happy about that," I scold and draw his head back down.

As he resumes his exploration, venturing down to sprinkle kisses between my breasts, he murmurs against my skin, "I haven't been with anyone either. Since you went to jail."

Since I went to jail. Great, now I have to do mental math. So his last time wasn't _our _last time, because _our _last time was before I went to jail.

Of course it wasn't. He had a girlfriend. What did I expect? That he wouldn't have sex with his own girlfriend after I ended our affair? Though, he hasn't been with anyone since he told me he loved me. I feel tingly.

No no no. Why do I even care? Truth be told, I would have slept with Greg tonight if I hadn't detonated the Marco bomb all over him. It shouldn't matter whether Nathaniel has slept with one or zero or a hundred people since me. It's not like I'm here to get back together. After what he did? I have my pride.

"Please touch me," I whine, raising my hips to grind against him.

...maybe I don't have my pride.

His free hand trails down to my center and his middle finger dances over the material of my panties, which are already wet with need. Even this soft of a touch does me in and my inner muscles clench around a phantom object. Maybe I've been doing too many kegels.

"Is this what you want?" he asks, playing with me, as he drags his finger more firmly over my folds.

"Please," I rasp. He prods the cotton of my panties to the side and slips his middle finger into my vagina. "Oh fuck, thank god," I say, my verbal filter completely gone, and lift my hips to meet his strokes.

"Jesus," he says against my lips.

Oh, I know. I'm horny and desperate and possibly wetter than I've ever been this early into a sexual encounter. He eases another finger inside and rubs the heel of his hand against my clit. I gasp and my muscles clamp down again. When I open my eyes, he's watching me, his mouth agape, and I know he's imagining how it would feel around his dick.

I reach between us and cup him through his sweatpants. Even through the material, I can feel he's thick, ready, and his hips jerk at my touch.

Want. Now.

Our sexual telepathy strikes again. He rolls off of me and stands, swiftly shucking his sweatpants off, his eyes never leaving my body. I scramble to unhook my bra and discard the underwire prison, along with my underwear, over the side of the bed.

What's interesting about dicks is that about ninety-five percent of the time, they're not all that great to look at. Most of the time they're flopping around looking like a sad sock puppet. But that five percent. Hoo boy. He's full and heavy and, if I wasn't so desperate to get off as soon as possible, I would suck him off like my junior year prom date. Only way better since this is a sexy man and not an awkward mathlete with braces.

He returns to his position on top of me and slides two fingers back inside, the pads tickling over the bundle of nerves running along the front wall. Yes. With my breasts exposed he busies his mouth with kissing all over my chest while continuing to stroke in and out. When he gets to my nipple, taking one into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it, I arch my back and he groans, grinding his erection against my hot thigh and thrusting his fingers hard, and, holy hell, I'm already getting close. I may set a personal record for the least amount of foreplay ever required before orgasm.

He releases my nipple and grabs both my wrists in one large hand and pins them above my head. After dropping a peck to each mole on my cheek - one, two, three - he asks, his voice husky, "You want me to put my mouth on you?"

Is my name Rebecca Nora Bunch? Of course I fucking do.

I don't even respond, I've lost all cognitive function by this point. He lets go of my wrists and scoots down the bed, still finger fucking me like he's senior partner of my vagina. He presses a fiery kiss to my clit and I shudder, a humiliating, squeaky noise leaving my throat. Heaven. He smiles and digs in, lapping me up in long strokes. I'm a goner in less than a minute.

My legs quake and I grab at his head, holding him there, shameless as I ride it out. I have no idea what I'm saying but it's probably profanity of the most filthy degree and for a few moments I can only see black spots behind my eyelids.

Minutes, or possibly hours later, I don't know - time is flat circle at this point - I regain my faculties to see Nathaniel standing beside the bed rolling a condom over his impossibly hard dick. "You survive?" he jokes.

"You have no idea how much I needed that," I say, draping my wrist across my forehead like a Victorian woman on a fainting couch. Fuck me like one of your French girls, please.

"I think I do have an idea," he smirks, thrusting into his own hand as he secures the condom.

I roll over onto my stomach and stretch, making a big show of yawning wide. As I rest my head down on my crossed arms and close my eyes, I say, "I'm tired. I think I'm going to take a nap."

He chuckles and climbs onto the bed, slinging his leg over my body so he's straddling my ass. "That's fine. You just relax," he soothes, his hands massaging up and down the plane of my sweat-slick back.

"Hmmm," I purr. I begin to tuck my knees up under my body, anticipating his next move.

"No, you stay right there," he murmurs, applying gentle pressure to my lower back.

Alright then. If he wants to do all the work while I lay here in post-orgasmic bliss, I'm all for it. He glides both his hands down the expanse of my back, over my arms until he covers my hands with his own and threads our fingers together. His cock nudges at my door and I swivel my ass back to meet him. After a few false starts he finds my entrance and slowly pushes his way inside. The pressure, the satisfying stretch as my body accommodates his, is exquisite. It's pain and it's pleasure and it's achingly familiar. His fingers squeeze mine and he huffs, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck. A second breath and the pressure intensifies as he buries himself to the hilt.

"Oooh my god," I hiss.

"Ok?" he exhales.

I grind my ass back against him in response and his chest rumbles with a moan, sending gentle vibrations along my back. His starts slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, making soft grunting sounds each time, like he's savoring each thrust. Every dip into the mattress provides a tiny amount friction against my clit, sparking new waves of arousal deep inside me.

I curl my fingers and dig my nails into his fingers, which are still interlaced with mine. "Harder," I urge.

He surges forward, obeying immediately, his sweaty skin slapping against mine. The sudden change takes my breath away and fuels the fire of my inevitable second climax. He snakes one of our joined hands, the right one, under my body.

"Touch yourself," he instructs me, releasing my hand. I dutifully slide my hand the rest of the way, pressing my fingers to my clit, as he grips my hips for leverage and fucks me even harder.

"Good," he hums and nips at my shoulder. "I want you to come again."

"Then you better not stop."

"Don't you tell me what to do," he growls and punctuates his point with a sharp thrust.

My mind goes blank as he lets loose, plunging into me over and over, relentless.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Just. Harder. There. Don't. Stop.

When I come, I cry out and strangle a fistful of his sheets between my hands, and it instantly triggers his own orgasm. The noise he makes is animal, guttural, a mix between a cry and a groan. It's almost violent, how intense it seems for him, and he winces at each forceful slap of his hips until he shudders to a stop.

Nathaniel pants while he recovers, sweat dripping from the point of his nose to splash on the small of my back. "Holy shit," he exhales.

Indeed.

As his dick wanes inside me, his arms tremble, struggling to support the weight of his upper body. I glance behind me and roll to the side, saying, "Take a load off," over my shoulder.

He grins, breathless, and slips out of me, getting up and tripping to the bathroom on shaky legs. While he's gone, I bury my face into a pillow, inhaling his scent. Oh yea. That's the stuff.

I slip under the cool sheets and contemplate whether I should stay or leave. Does he want me to stay? Do I want to stay? Before I can decide, he returns and eagerly gets into bed, spooning me from behind.

He wants me to stay.

"I love you," he whispers and kisses my shoulder several times in rapid succession, tightening his muscled arm around my middle.

Uh oh.

I say nothing.

"Rebecca, I love you," he says again, his mouth just behind my ear now, as if maybe I didn't hear the first time.

His whole body tenses when I don't respond. The arm draped around me slackens and he tugs at me to roll over onto my back. When our eyes meet, I'm certain my inner turmoil is written all over my face.

His brow furrows in confusion. "You don't love me anymore?"

"I...I don't know."

The bare-naked pain in his eyes will haunt me for eternity.

"You don't know?" he echoes, incredulous, and props himself against the headboard.

I mirror him and sit up, pulling at the sheet to cover my chest. As if we've ever been modest about anything. "With everything that's happened between us. It's confusing. And then there's…um..."

"...this other guy," he finishes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets up, finding his rumpled pants at the foot of the bed. As he pulls them on, he asks, with a subtle bite in his tone, "Why did you even come here? Because he rejected you and I'm your backup?"

Panic tears up my insides. I'm sweating under his interrogation, preemptively ashamed of the truth, of what my answer will be.

Nathaniel turns his back to me and walks over to where his t-shirt and my sweater lay twisted up together in a pile on the floor. He detangles the star-crossed articles of clothing and slips the t-shirt over his head.

"I didn't realize you still felt that way," I finally say, which is half-true.

At that he bites his lip and stares down at my sweater in his hands, fingering the soft material with a pensive expression. After a beat, he walks back to the bed and offers it to me. "How can you think I'm anything but hopelessly in love with you?" he says, his voice low and laden with hurt.

Wow. This is bad. Even for me.

I quietly start to put my clothes back on while he returns to the living area and paces the length of the couch. The distance between us is mere feet but it feels like we're light years apart.

Before I give to the inevitable shame spiral - it's coming, I can feel it - I force myself to remember why we're in this situation in the first place. He betrayed my trust. He used my own teenaged, hormone-fueled fantasies to try to _manipulate _me into a relationship. He messed with my brother, with whom I was finally on the verge of developing a relationship. He told me that trying to be a better person was _silly _and _selfish_.

As I button my jeans I say, "Listen, you have to realize the things you've said and the things you've done lately...they don't exactly scream love, ok?"

He stops pacing. "I told you. I know I screwed up. But I mean it when I say I love you. Don't those words mean anything to you? They mean something to me. You're the first person I've said that to who wasn't my mother or my au pair."

"Mona?"

He shakes his head. "I didn't love her."

I feel ill.

"Nathaniel, even if we love each other, how could we ever make this work? How can I even trust you? I mean, while we're on the subject, you cheated on Mona for your entire relationship."

"Yea, with you!"

I thrust both my arms out, as if to say, _Exactly!_

"But I did it for you! I cheated on her because I loved you."

"That doesn't make it any better!"

He takes a deep breath. "Rebecca, you broke up with me. You said you didn't want to be with me. Or anyone. Then, the _second _I get a girlfriend, the _second _I try to move on, you literally fall into my lap."

I cross my arms in front of me. He's right and I hate it. "So?"

"Are you saying if I had broken up with Mona back then, after the first time we slipped up, you would have gotten back together with me?"

"Well, no, not...I wasn't..."

"Exactly."

"What's your point?"

"My point is it was the only way I could get close to you. I wouldn't cheat on you because the whole reason I cheated was for you!"

I shake my head in disbelief. This is a goddamn mess.

"Rebecca, listen, I don't care about the baggage or whatever bad things the two of us have done in the past. All I want is to move forward, start over, and give us a real chance."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath in and out. This is too complicated. I need simple in my life right now. I only have room for simple.

"Rebecca," he pleads.

I open my eyes. "Nathaniel, I am finally in a place in my life where I feel grounded. Do you know how long it took me to get to here? My whole life. I need stability right now. Whether I love you or not, I can't have this kind of drama. I don't want to fall back into my old patterns."

His jaw sets, unhappy with my answer. "Then why did you come here? Just tell me the truth. Whatever it is."

I uncross my arms. He wants the truth? Fine, he can have it. All of it.

"I told you the truth. I do miss you. And, after telling Greg what I did, I felt really low and I know you've always seen me as a good person." I stop and he waits for me to keep going because he knows there's more. "Also, again, if I'm telling the whole truth, I haven't had sex in a long time and I knew…" I pause and point to my ears. "Yep, I'm hearing how bad this all sounds."

He sighs and his eyes are glassy.

I grab my purse from the barstool and say, "I'm sorry. You're right. I shouldn't have come here. I'll leave now."

He gives me a patented Nathaniel _we're done here_ nod and lets me go without protest.

It's not until I get home and I'm bundled in the safety of my own bed that I remember the letter. It's handwritten, in Nathaniel's meticulous scribble. The stationery has his name proudly embossed at the bottom: _Nathaniel Plimpton III_

_Dear Rebecca,_

_First, I need to say I'm sorry. I hope you can accept my apology for what I did. You were right. My behavior was indefensible. I wish, more than anything, I could go back in time and make different choices._

_I think I finally understand what you were trying to tell me when you got out of jail. About wanting to be a better person. After doing some self-reflection, inspired by your harsh yet all-too-accurate assessment of me, I'm trying to turn over a new leaf myself. No more lying or scheming. And definitely no more cheating._

_The thing that really pains me is that even though the words I said were stolen, from you, the meaning behind them was all true. So here's what I should have said, what I would have said, if I had used my own words._

_Before I met you, my world was grey and dull and quiet. You brought color and joy and music to my life. I miss sitting across from you eight hours a day. Even on the days when you made jabs at my expense or wouldn't stop your incessant humming, I loved every moment in that office with you. I miss your wit and your intelligence. You challenge me in a way no one else does. I miss kissing you and holding you and being close to you. What a fool I was to take it all for granted._

_Despite what you may think, I really do love you. I say it so much because I've never loved anyone like this and that's the honest truth. But I was so blinded by it, so desperate to be with you, that I blew it. I understand you may never want to see me or speak to me again, but I still want you to have this apology, because you deserve it._

_Sincerely_

_Nathaniel_


End file.
